Transcendence
by theprofessorslove
Summary: Could she ever forget? Or, more importantly, did she want to? (Slightly AU.)
1. The Sound of Silence

Note from Author: This will be my first multi-chapter fic. Criticism would be greatly appreciated. I have encountered some technical difficulties here, so please bear with the reversed chapters until I can fix them.

Disclaimer: If I said I owned them, would you believe me?

_I. The Sound of Silence_

Grabbing her gun hastily from her holster, Olivia Benson experiences the closest thing she's ever known to transcendence. She no longer feels like herself; she is merely a timed weapon, a trained robot; taught to seek after her target mercilessly.

She's aware of him reaching for the gun, but unlike the clichés, it doesn't seem rash and unexpected. It seems quite the contrary, in fact; his hands wrapping around the cool, black metal, each finger intertwining with the next, and she's not sure where the human begins and automatic weapon ends.

So she shoots him.

It's when he hits the ground, when a heavy, dull thud reverberates around the concrete where she stands, that she fully grasps the transposable consequences of her actions. For once, she is responsible for another; another living, breathing, _feeling_, human being besides herself; and a profound amount of newfound responsibility courses through her veins. Guilt, she supposes.

Her partner glances over momentarily, understanding and concern etched into his gentle features.

It makes her sick, this look; because she knows that he's not concerned about the victim; the living, breathing, _feeling_ human being that she just brutally, thoughtlessly murdered in cold blood; but _her_. Somehow she is the victim, and somewhere in the midst of this silent reverie, her implacable guilt becomes unadulterated anger.

"You okay, Liv?" he asks, the doubt clouding his eyes already prophesizing her answer.

_I am, but he's not._

"Sure," she offers, and even she knows the words ring hollow and vacant. He comes over slowly, as if approaching one of their rape victims at the scene of the crime, unsure of what kind of psychotic meltdown sudden movements would cause.

He drapes a threadbare wool blanket over her shoulders; a symbolic representation of comfort in their terms; but she arches inward at the contact and remains motionless, her eyes transfixed by the void of nothingness that lays a few feet in front of her.

_It's not even cold, Elliot._

"Thank you," she whispers inaudibly, and even he knows that she doesn't mean it. She resents his conciliatory gestures of comfort and protection, and on any other day she would quip that he was some sort of a token alpha-male, but today isn't one of those days. All that she'll remember from this day is the sound of that bullet; her actions, her responsibility, her _guilt_; shattering the bones in the brain of someone she hardly even knew, but someone who she would be inextricably linked to for the rest of her existence.

_Maybe this is how my mother felt about her rapist and me._

Except this time, she realized, which side was she on?


	2. Wreck of the Day

_II. Wreck of the Day_

"Do you think it's arbitrary?" she asks him, the pallid glow of looming darkness ominous in her darkly concentrated, brooding features.

"Is what arbitrary?" he questions, gently prodding what he knows will be one of their many ontological conversations at dusk, when sunlight recedes and they are welcomed by the familiarity of portentous, evocative shadows.

"This," she says, her gaze lifting to meet his. "Do you think we're doing this job for a reason? That we were assigned to it because maybe…"

Her words drift off as the pallid glow of evening fades into the murky silhouette of darkness, both knowing what would be said, but both afraid to speak the words. Her eyes remain transfixed on his for a few moments afterwards, wordlessly challenging him to answer her question, their question; somehow make sense out what she never has. She averts his gaze when he doesn't respond, silently telling him that he's failed; she's still confused, unhappy, and angry; and even he couldn't protect her from that.

"Sometimes I don't think that a 'god' would wish this upon anyone," she begins again, a slight breeze picking up speed around her, blowing uncooperative chestnut strands of hair into her face, and she doesn't bother to push them back. Nothing seems worth bothering for, these days.

"You can't stop fighting," he offers gently, tucking the hair tenderly behind her ear. Her russet-tinged tresses feel like an exotic silk laced around his rough fingers, and it is at this moment that he realizes how truly beautiful she is. "You can't give up."

"That's the problem," she says, her voice cracking at his contact but not bothering to pull away. His face remains inches from hers, and she longer hears two cadenced breathing patterns, but one steady heartbeat. Somehow, in this moment, they have become one person, and she's not sure anymore where he ends and she begins. "I should have given up…today," she says, a bed of tears forming beneath her eyelids, profound anguish burning from her irises to his soul. "I kept going…and where did that get me? Where…where did that get _him?_"

Her eyes resemble two muddy conduits to heartbreak, a pathway dimly lit but profound in its depths, and he finds himself walking on the edge of it. She's not pulling away, he realizes, and she is almost challenging him to prove her right, pull away so she use it as an excuse for distance in the future. How many times has he accused her of being detached, of being cold and distant? And now, the one moment when he _has_ her, every emotional depth to her soul revealed in a rare moment when emotions and bitter, astringent truths transcend all physical and empirical barriers to form one troubled soul, he's questioning himself. He has experienced this often since he became a detective; everything feels superficial and ephemeral; and he often finds himself asking if it's there, if it's real, if it's not another fantasy. To him, nightmares have become more real than dreams.

"He was a rapist, Olivia," he says, putting his thoughts aside momentarily.

"A life can't be measured in mistakes," she responds, her tone growing louder with urgency, as if she is pleading with him for something concrete, for something she can count on.

"With a mistake like that…" he pauses, his eyes gazing even deeper into hers, as if searching for something that he knows isn't there. "…Yes it can."

He pauses as she withdraws from his fixated gaze, her attempt at contravening the intimate moment that was shared between them; the closest she had ever been to a complete unity of being with another. In her peripheral vision, she still sees the ruminating pellucid radiance of his eyes; his effort to bring her back, his stubborn attempt at verifying that their connection is not over, that he is still waiting for her.

_We're so close, Olivia. Just come back._

"Elliot. Don't –"

Mid-sentence, he comes to the realization that their combined angst is simply not sufficient for the connection and comfort that they both irreparably need; sometimes words are only words; and only they can understand the verity of this fact.

He supposes that it's a conglomeration of sheer sexual desire, irrefutable vulnerability, and utter loneliness which causes his lips to come crashing upon hers; and he also supposes that it's pure reason and common sense that causes them both to pull away.

He expects an initial reaction of feministic anger, an accusatory glare of vulnerability that was taken advantage of and a trust that was violated, but instead she deigns him with conciliatory pity. "This won't help," she says ruefully, as if stating a common fact, something that foreshadows previous experience. "It's not that easy."


	3. Orange Sky

_III. Orange Sky_

Note from author: This is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone that has reviewed...next time, I hope there will be a few more! The readers keep me going; I need you to tell me if you want more.

* * *

As she continues down the tapered path, she takes long, laborious strides that cause her arms to sway haphazardly at her sides. Surveying her concentration on the mere task at hand –putting one foot in front of the other –he discerns the obvious variation in her demeanor: a ubiquitous, overriding sense of an exhausting, wearisome sadness. Her hazy eyes, her wayward arms, her long, laborious strides; they are all representative of the overpowering existence of impending gloom; and for this, he feels guilty.

He supposes that it wasn't his fault that she quit: the kiss simply served as a catalyst, an immediate incentive to conclude an epoch of her life that had previously held so much significance.

He knows that the true reason for her resignation was that man; _the _man; a simple, random human being that had left so much unfinished business for her to tie up, so many things left to uncover. _The _man had been shot on _that_ day, _the_ day when right and wrong could not be distinguished, or put into two diametrically opposing columns on a piece of loose-leaf. It was on this day that monikers like "perp" or 'victim" were completely meaningless, because who knew what they were anymore? As far as Olivia was concerned, she was as close to a perp as she was to a cop; duty was something that could no longer be summarized in a job description.

It had never made sense to him, however, that _this _man; a man with no name, no history, no _life_; had ruined hers so efficiently. He refused to believe that a man, who was really nothing more than a rapist, held so much arduous power over her; but then again, maybe she was nothing more than a cop.

"Elliot?"

Her voice awakens him immediately from his silent reverie, and he instantaneously realizes that she has discovered him and his hiding place; she has found him out once again.

"What are you doing here?"

He doesn't bother to act surprised, to cover up his not so covert operation. He knows that she knows exactly what he is doing, and in a way he is relieved.

"Watching you."

She takes a deep sigh, and takes the seat next to him on the park bench. They are the only two who would be out in Central Park at this time of night; "Good Samaritan"-like vigilance is foolish to them now. They know what exactly what risks there are in this ambiance; but there are simply too many dangers for them to begin worrying now.

"Got a new partner yet?" she asks coolly, staring openly at the scenery before them.

They look like quite a pair in this moment; this is something they are both aware of. They both sit rigidly, side by side, not bothering to look at one another; only concentrating on the weak shadows cast by the full moon as they reflect a pale, insipid glow on the grass. Sirens actively screech around them, a clamor so essential to their own lives that it is now a fundamental part of their nightly circadian rhythm. Sometimes, she thinks the presence of silence would alarm them.

"James Murphy, good guy," he responds absentmindedly, but only they know that there is no such thing. The unconscious does not exist for them: if it did, maybe they wouldn't be so good at what they did and so bad at life. "Two weeks, at most."

She nods in understanding, and they are both aware of the fact that "good guys" don't last in their department. To preserve one's morality, at all costs, is to commit suicide.

Her eyes focus on a precarious orange sparkle hovering in the pallid sky above them. It is a salient shade of ginger, striking in contrast to the dull glow of the early morning sky; a prominent inaccuracy in an artistic masterpiece; the wrong paint in a picturesque, soothing watercolor.

"What have you been doing, Liv?" he asks, turning his head to establish eye contact, indicating that he wants to talk about her and _them_, a bond that he so fervently convinces himself is not shattered.

"Thinking," she says firmly. "A lot of thinking."

"About what?" he gently prods.

"Everything," she responds, with a short, sardonic laugh. "Everything there is to think about."

"Well that's not such a bad thing, is it?"

She turns to face him now; her lips relaxing into a weary, knowing smile.

_Don't patronize me, Elliot. You've been there._

"Thinking too much…" she begins, with a heavy sigh, "can get you into trouble."

She now discerns that the brilliant orange spark is not an artistic _faux pas_, but a great, imminent orb of helium, most likely belonging to a dissatisfied child. It lingers aimlessly in the sky, only seeming to move from side to side but without the bravery to either return to the ground or continue upwards. It persists procrastinating, avoiding its fate; and Olivia feels a stab of sympathy towards the suspended object, merely because it is so vigorously, and foolishly, trying to evade the inevitable.

_Some things are just meant to happen._

"Everyone has a crisis of faith, Olivia," he offers. "You think about things for a while, question them, and then go back to what you had before…you know, the _solid_ things."

"But what's _solid_, Elliot?" she asks, her intonation rising with exigency, demanding a concrete response. "The fact that I used to come home to an empty apartment every night? That I haven't had a good night's sleep in years? My non-existent personal relationships with people?"

"And what are you doing now? Are you having sex more often? Sleeping better? Meeting new people?"

She knows that he sees it too, because it seems that they see everything together, these days. He responds with the same urgency, the same passion, the same active, hopeful reaction when really, only they know that everything is, indeed, hopeless. He knows that the balloon will float away, meet its eventual doom; but he attempts to help, just for the sake of trying.

_What would happen if we just gave up; stopped trying? Not only would we lose everyone else, we'd lose ourselves._

She pauses for a moment, seemingly startled at the verity of Elliot's response. As much as she wished for a rightanswer, something that she could use as a source of reassurance, something comforting; she had never expected it. She was so used to being disappointed by everything and everyone that she found herself unfamiliar with something real, with something true, with something _right._

'_Right.' That's a word –no, an idea –that I'm not too accustomed to._

"You've already seen it, Liv," he says softly, lighter than the spherical object that is roaming aimlessly amidst the stars. "You can't forget it…you can't drift away."

"You know," she begins, turning away from him once more to focus on the scenery before them, "watching balloons float away used to depress me."

"And now?"

"And now," she shifts her weight to let her head rest on the nape of his neck, a stray lock of hair dancing tenderly on the tip of his eyelash, "I think it's beautiful."

_Fin._


End file.
